


There’s Only One Of Me

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, bad handle names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24154735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: John has been back from war for a year now, and is only just ready to get back to work. He thinks the job search is hopeless, until the hand of, well, certainly not God, but whoever, intervenes.All the while, he can’t shake the memory of one man. If only he’d seen the sniper’s face!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 54





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> What up??? I guess this quarantine fic was just waiting to happen. Hope the inspiration keeps coming..

John had snorted when he had first heard the handle. Murray had stuck him in the rib with the toe of his boot. That must have been before Kandahar. Murray wouldn’t have done that to a Captain, so it must have been in the time before John had risen in the ranks; back when they were just out of training.

That, of course, was well before the sniper had saved his life, if only just.

It had been a year to the day since he’d been sent back to London with nothing but a near-fatal bullet wound in his shoulder and the memory of the man who dragged him to the rescue copter playing on repeat in his head. A year spent working (fighting) with a slew of therapists to pick out all the other recurring memories and suffocate them, so that only the one moment remained. That moment, and only that moment.

“And you see him now, instead of the others?” The newest therapist asked, writing something quickly down in his notebook. 

“That makes it sound like I picked him over them.”

“You picked the good memories of this man to keep, instead of the bad memories of the friends you lost that day. But you still have the good memories of Murray and the others,” the man said as he tipped his head to the side a bit. 

John wanted to hit him. Instead he kept his mouth shut.

Another note in the notebook, pen scratching, toe tapping. “And the job search?”

John tuned the man out and started to count the holes in the tiles on the ceiling.

_____

*****

Watsonj2002:

Looking for someone, hoping the community can help. Sniper with a peculiar handle. Very 90s tech magnate baddie. 

Years —redacted— through —redacted—. 

I think you were stationed in —redacted— in the —redacted— Provence.

And, not sure how to say this, I think you saved my life on my last mission in —redacted—. Just suppose I wanted to thank you, and possibly see if you live in London and wanted to get a pint. If you think this is you, or someone you know, please get back to me.

Captain Dr. John Watson, retired

*****

Mycroft smiled to himself, because he was sure she was right. He looked up at his secretary and gave her a curt nod; just about the biggest of compliments he had to give. The woman smiled from the doorway and nodded once back before closing the door on her way out.  
Mycroft waited until he could hear her speaking with his mother before he set the cleared readout down on his desk and picked up the phone. He cradled the receiver of the old landline between his shoulder and ear as he sat back to look out the window and into the woods behind his ancestral home. His finger played at the rotary dial, twirling away while he thought. 

The call rang seven times before Sherlock answered.

“I’m only answering because you’re the one cleaning the place out for the party. Don’t expect this new behavior to last,” Sherlock’s voice said, tinny through the line. 

“A normal sibling relationship? I couldn’t ask you for that, brother-dear. But if I could just have you remind me where you were a year ago around this time?” Mycroft asked smoothly, getting to the quick of it right away.

And.

And.

Silence. Perhaps, too much, too soon.

“I hate you. I just want you to know that I hate you before I say this: that was the LAST time. I’m not in the service anymore and there is nothing you could make me do to-“

“Quiet, Sherlock.” Mycroft interrupted. “You misinterpret my interest. I was just taking a trip down memory lane, and-“

The phone disconnected before he could say another word. Touchy subject, he guessed. 

But, it wasn’t like he could wait until next Summer, not with Mummy’s health the way it was. All she ever wanted was to see her youngest happy, and if it took the best of the Queen’s men to do that; fine. He would buck up, set aside their differences, and finally play Cupid on his baby brother’s account. Happily, that also meant that Bart’s hospital would be getting one of the army’s best field surgeons, if only to help in their morgue.

Yes, he decided, glancing over at his childhood bed and sighing, for Mummy’s sake.


	2. Morning (not necessarily good)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super excited to be back, guys! The chapters might eventually get longer, but I’m rusty. Hope you enjoy, and thanks so much for the happy welcome back!!!

The nightmare woke him again (Murray’s dead body covering his own. The shooter’s eyes as he drew sights on John. The sudden flurry of movement as his head-) and he was sitting up in his bed and panting. 

“Bloody. Fuck. Shite. Bastard,” the usual litany of curses that preceded the magic words, and then a deep breath before he said them in a choked off whisper: “You’re in God’s hands now.”

He still felt silly saying it. He’d started saying it while in hospital between surgeries 3 and 4. It was something the first therapist had suggested, actually, now that he thought of it. She wasn’t all that bad a therapist after all. 

‘What do you associate with the soldier that saved you? What can you say to yourself to remember it’s over, remember you made it out?’ she’d asked.

John remembered hearing the phrase on the radio at his first station as surgeon. Murray and him were listening in on an extraction, learning a little about what doctors could get themselves into in the field. It was the first time John really understood that he might not make it out of the service alive. 

“God’s hands,” he murmured, allowing his eyes to fall closed again so he could imagine the hands on his shoulders. The hands of the man that saved him.

It took him a few more minutes of intense concentration before he could get his heart rate under control enough to even think about a shower. The alarm clock in the corner was blinking six o’clock at him, no matter how much his bleary eyes seemed to want to see the number of the beast. Might as well start the day.

“God’s hands,” he muttered to himself with a small grunt as he started to make his way to the cramped loo. 

His mobile rang out across the bedsit and John cursed as he changed directions and stumbled over to the sideboard to grab it. His leg was still acting up, and he should have had his new cane by the side of the bed, he realized just then. He cleared his throat a few times, but it was still raw when he ground out an abrupt hello into the receiver. 

“Dr Watson?” a timid voice replied. “I’m, well, I’m calling from the morgue.” 

And then he was awake. Awake and wondering if his sister had managed to get herself killed at last. “Come again?!” 

“Oh,” came a nervous giggle, and the woman went on, “no, not like that. Silly me. Sorry, I mean, I’m from Saint Bart’s hospital, and we were looking over your resume, Dr Watson, and we think we have a place for you in the morgue.” When John didn’t reply, the woman clarified, “As staff, not clientele, I mean.”

John didn’t remember sending his resume to Bart’s, and he would have remembered sending it to anywhere larger than the few clinics offering part time positions. ‘That damn therapist,’ he thought. 

“That’s, thanks, yeah. When can I come in to, erm-“ he replied, trying not to sound as gruff as before.

“That’s why I’m calling. We just had someone cancel, so you can come and meet the team today around ten today, if that works,” the woman replied cheerfully. “By the way, I’m Molly. Dr Molly Hooper.”

_____

The pain was everywhere. He was surrounded by flames, waist deep in burning sand. He smelled sulfur and heard them crying out, crying out for- 

“God! Blasted, stupid - Mrs HUDSON!” 

Sherlock lay flat on the bed and ground his teeth. ‘Get it back..get the pain under control,’ he thought. 

Mrs Hudson came in through the door with a breakfast tray and bustled right up to the bed. “Sherlock dear,” she chirped, concern etching her brow, “I was wondering when you would join the land of the living again.”

Sherlock couldn’t tell her that the turn of phrase was a bit too close to the truth, but he assumed his grunt as he rolled over was enough to give himself away.

“Nightmares again,” Mrs H sighed, settling on the edge of the bed. “Third time this week, love.”

“I can count,” came the dull reply.

“Maybe it’s time to try-“

Sherlock was on his feet and wrapping his dressing gown around himself tightly before she could finish the thought, gritting his teeth in pain as he stomped with percussive effect to his desk in the sitting room. He pointedly blocked her out as he shuffled through papers for what he was well aware was his last Vicodin. That meant he’d have to go visit Mike later, the walk from the station to Bart’s was a daunting one whenever he was in this state. Maybe Molly would have something fun for him. Unlikely.

Finally!

One single pill, not nearly enough, as smooth as a skipping rock in his hand as he stumbled to the loo. He placed it carefully under his tongue and climbed into the shower. His knees protested. Forgot to stretch before bed. His fault. 

His fingers were electrified with pain as he clenched the water tap and pulled. Freezing water hit his skin and he popped the pill in his mouth and took a a few gulping mouthfuls of it. The pipes groaned and complained away as Sherlock ran a hand into his damp curls and started to plan his day, the water finally warming.


	3. Mikey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an old friend, and we get an idea about what Sherlock is up to.

John pulled his cane closer to himself so that the people seated next to him wouldn’t jostle his leg as they left. He waited until there was enough room for him to get up, with a grunt, and tried his best to blend into the stream that was making its way to the surface. He almost tripped twice going up the stairs, and as far as he could tell that was enough reason to take a break in the park on the way and catch his breath; after he bought himself a damn coffee.

The local spot was packed with people and John thought he felt his hackles rise as he stepped into the long line.

He tried to remind himself that he was not in danger here.

The woman in front of him, dark skin and a shaved head, she was in much more danger than himself.

The reminder worked and he found himself gaining an inch in height as he scanned the place for disaffected men, particularly white men with misogynistic views and severe haircuts. He knew his enemy. 

Breathing under control, he realised he’d actually frequented this spot whilst going to Bart’s. Before the renovation it had been run by an old man. There had been rows of formica topped tables lining the front window and back walls, and that abundance of flat surfaces guaranteed the medical students could always cram before class. The floors had been a peculiarly hard to describe color. Almost copper, somehow green, he had spent many a night nudging at the flattened carpet strands while memorizing vocabulary. Now it was a buzzing wasteland of hypnotic modernity and he felt like a transient body again, soon to be swiftly expunged from regular society.

“John Watson, as I live and breathe,” a man was saying, nudging at the air next to him with a to-go cup. “The line has lost you, mate. But I grabbed you one when I got mine.”

John blinked his eyes and found that a new line had formed when he hadn’t moved. People snaked around him and he had to turn to address the man.

“Mikey,” he ground out, wondering how long he had drifted for, “ta.”

He took the cup from the man he now realized was his first-year roommate, and followed him out and down the walkway until they were sheltered from the street by the long lane of maple trees. They stilled there and John took a too-eager sip of the coffee and burned his tongue.

“Mike now, actually,” the stout man said. He was obviously nervous as he turned to speak to John. “Heard you shipped out like you always wanted to,” he said, eyes darting to and then past John. “How did that turn out for you?”

John bit his tongue, let the clumsy question float in the air, and partook in a bit more ritual while Mike had a chance to notice the cane and course-correct.

He was not in danger here.

The man with the broken bicycle, a collection of cans, and trousers five sizes too big was the one in danger.

John kept his eyes open for cruel rich boys, bent on a little entertainment.

“I didn’t mean,” Mike sputtered.

“No worries, mate,” John interrupted. “No offense taken. Not sure if you’re gonna believe this, but I’m putting in for the position in the morgue.”

A grin slowly pulled at Mike’s mouth, and John could see the man’s younger self was still alive and well in there.

“John Hamish Watson. Always afraid you wouldn’t make it out. The prodigal son has returned. It’ll be just like the old days!”

Mike lit up with barely contained excitement, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet as he continued towards the hospital, cheeks red and smile honest. John sighed internally and followed along, hating the sound his cane made as he walked.

“Come home, he’s come home,” Mike began to sing.

John laughed, despite himself, and poked Mike with his cane to stop him, “I haven’t even had the interview yet.”

Mike just smiled wider and gave him a once over. “Molly Hooper will eat you right up, John. Welcome home, mate.”

_____

Molly Hooper stood at the table in the back of the morgue, the sound of the electric saw drowning out her voice as she sang along to one of her favorite Beyoncé songs and sawed through an ankle bone. Her singing turned to humming as she shut off the saw and set it down to inspect her work.

Instinct took over before she really had the time to get scared, but she shrieked nonetheless.

“Oh, for the love of…” Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing at his head where she had smacked him, and spinning to effortlessly drop into her work chair.

He flung his legs over one of the arms and glared at Molly, who for her part, was removing her bulky hearing protection and the earbuds she’d secured underneath. She sputtered as she tore off her gloves and goggles next, dropping them to her desk with huff.

“Sherlock. I didn’t, I wasn’t aware that, sorry, sorry.” She gathered herself and began again. “Did you just smell me?”

“New perfume. Out of your usual range. Not light and airy, not virginal.”

“Sherlock, really-“

“Jasmine,” Sherlock hissed, eyes narrowing. “ _Jasmine_.”

Molly turned and busied herself with securing the severed foot, knowing full well that Sherlock would attempt to nick it while she was flustered. Which she was, of course. Flustered because Sherlock had managed to put enough sex in his voice to drown a kitten. She could feel how red her cheeks were. Bastard could always seem to sense a secret.

“Who on Earth would little Miss Molly Hooper wear Jasmine for?”

The answer came via a short knock on the door frame at the front of the morgue. Soft knock, hard knock. Clear, concise, and to the point.

“Dr!” Molly chirped, pushing by Sherlock to greet the intruder. “So wonderful to finally meet you!”

Sherlock took the opportunity to slip out the service door. It snicked closed behind him just Molly was introducing herself. He paused for just a moment, standing under the florescent lights of the long hallway, and heard the answering hum of a man’s voice.

Totally dull, totally normal.

If there was a jump in his stomach, he thought, it was in anticipation of heading up to Mike’s office to abscond with another prescription pad. That must have been it.


	4. Boy Wonder

Sherlock Holmes had been a friend of Mike Stamford’s for many years. When Mike explained that to people for the very first time, he always seemed to get the same response:

Shock, horror, confusion. Usually a comment or two about some way Sherlock had swindled that particular person in the past.

People couldn’t seem to understand how someone as honest and kind as Mike could put up with having things constantly nicked from his person and office by such a rude man for so long.

Mike, however, understood something many others missed. He understood the joy that was basking in the brilliance of a mind like Sherlock’s. He was just as bad as Molly, he suspected, when it came to that. There was something almost electric about getting every drop of the gorgeous bastard’s attention. Besides, he could always get another prescription pad or autopsy report.

That generosity did not necessarily extend to his coffee.

“Now wait a minute!” Mike protested as Sherlock picked up his to go cup and pulled the lid off without a word. “I’m not done with that!”

Sherlock took a sniff and set it back down. “Don’t want it anyhow. I’m off caffeine.”

Mike stood at that, concern all but frothing out of him, and walked a bit closer to the door. He closed it behind Sherlock and spoke. “What do you mean, you’re off caffeine?”

Sherlock stiffened at the obvious mistake of being honest with anyone, ever, and linked his hands behind his back. He scanned Mike’s body frantically with his eyes. 

“I think the more pertinent question, is ‘When is the baby due?’”

Mike choked on his coffee, some of it going onto his paisley tie. “Beg pardon? Jenny isn’t pregnant.”

“Then why on earth are you already on your second cup of coffee today? Why would you buy...” 

Mike watched as the wheels turned in Sherlock’s mind. How he knew that Mike had bought two coffees was a mystery that wouldn’t likely be solved anytime soon, as Sherlock was muttering to himself that way he sometimes did when he was about to go non-verbal for a while. Mike let his ignored question go, and sat back in his chair.

Sherlock’s mind was spinning like mad. Stringing together pieces of information so quickly that Sherlock honestly had no idea what sort of revelation he was about to have. 

knock, KNOCK

Soft knock, hard knock.

The scent of Molly’s perfume returned to him and he closed his eyes, trying to picture the type of man Molly would be interested in.

knock, KNOCK

Coffee from an old spot, their old spot. Nostalgia written all over Mike’s face when he walked in the door.

“You know him,” Sherlock said, a grin coming over his face as his stomach (frighteningly, ominously, startlingly) dropped.

“Know-“ Mike tried.

“The doctor that Molly is trying to impress, no, seduce!” Sherlock exclaimed, not knowing why his body was seemingly filling with live bees by the second.

“Now, I don’t know who’s been spreading that-“ Mike tried, obviously nervous.

(Nervous about the new doctor? Nervous for Molly? Nervous Sherlock already knew too much?)

“Answer me!” Sherlock demanded, amazed at his racing heartbeat, the layer of sweat on his upper lip, the ringing in his-

“John Watson?”

_____

A DECADE PRIOR

“Dr. John Watson.”

The name was plain enough on his brother’s tongue. No clue among the handful of letters to the man behind them. Sherlock took the leather bound dossier and sat back in his seat with a sigh.

“Anything you feel like telling me, Sherlock?” Mycroft murmured. “You know that fraternizing is absolutely not-“

Sherlock let the sounds of seagulls drown his brother out as he leafed through the twenty-odd pages of intel on the man he was not at all fraternizing with. 

Sherlock had been put up with a family in the town where the transport picked up the new soldiers for the base. He was currently assigned to a dignitary who was supposedly important to the whole world, and was meant to spend his downtime trailing a seemingly unending list of up-and-coming enemies of the Queen.

That was where he happened to run across the good doctor. Lord knows, Sherlock Holmes; boy wonder, was never so as inclined to find himself inside a pub for anything other than work.

“This is what I needed,” Sherlock admitted blandly, standing from his spot by the fireplace and heading for the door.

“So incredibly close to a thank you,” Mycroft tossed after him.

Sherlock grunted and stuffed the dossier into the front of his trousers, spinning to avoid the quick hands of Mycroft’s current assistant, Toby. The man almost nearly always gave Sherlock a run for his money, and this time was no different.

“Boys,” Mycroft chided softly; almost to himself, Sherlock thought.

Toby managed to get a good hold on the leather cover and Sherlock felt the two or three pages he could scramble for rip; just a pathetic few triangles of blank margin left in his hands as he stumbled out it Toby’s grip. 

‘No matter,’ he thought as he retreated, corner of Mycroft’s wallet poking him in the shin with every step. He had a name, after all. 

John Watson


End file.
